


The Queen's Affections

by HouseofTheBear



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU from episode 04x05, Erotica, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-17 05:57:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16089464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HouseofTheBear/pseuds/HouseofTheBear
Summary: Jorah, her faithful Knight, or Daario, the brash sellsword. Daenerys reveals who truly has her affections.





	The Queen's Affections

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so all of us Jorah/Daenerys shippers know that *look* Daenerys gives Jorah in Season 4, Episode 5 "First of his Name". That quirked eyebrow and flirtatious smile...Daenerys, just admit it, you want him. And, in this little fanwork, she finally does. YAY!
> 
> This was intended to be something short, but as is usually the case for me when I write these two, it ended up being much longer. But I don't think anyone will be complaining at the end ;)
> 
> I decided to post this as a gift to all of my readers. 10,000 hits for "Blurring the Lines"?!? To say I am both shocked and honored would be an understatement. You have blessed me with your time, kudos, and reviews. And for all of that, I am truly grateful. Please enjoy this small token of my appreciation.
> 
> And a special thanks to @foxdl. You gave me the idea for this work. You're awesome :D
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: This work contains dialogue from a Game of Thrones episode. It is used only for the purpose of establishing a scene. The characters described within belong to their respective creators and I stand to make nothing from this. Please do not sue me.

“King Joffrey Baratheon is dead, murdered at his own wedding.” Jorah states into the silence.

“And we’ve taken the Meereenese Navy, Your Grace,” Barristan adds.

“The Second Son’s took the Meereenese Navy.”

Daario strides into the room, taking a seat next to Jorah. He reaches into the shallow bowl located in the center of the table, taking a few dates before popping one into his mouth and chewing it slowly.

"Who told you to take their Navy,” Daenerys demands, exasperation shading her words.

“No one.”

“So why did you do it?” The irritation in her voice is clear and Jorah feels it just as acutely.

“I heard you liked ships.”

Jorah gives a sidelong glance to the pompous sellsword sitting at his side, trying desperately not to roll his eyes at the ridiculousness of his justification, or actions, he cannot seem to decide which is more outrageous in its attempt to garner the Queen’s affections. And judging by the way Daenerys turns away from the council; she shares at least some of his sentiment. A brief sweep of the room confirms everyone else does too, except perhaps Grey Worm, his face as stoic as it always is.

“How many ships,” Daenerys finally asks.

Barristan supplies the answer, “93, Your Grace.”

“How many men can they carry?”

“9,300, not counting sailors.”

“Would that be enough to take King’s Landing,” she inquires, her eyes stopping on Jorah.

“The Lannisters have more.”

“They’ve been fighting Joffrey’s wars for years. They’re tired, dispersed. And now their King is dead,” Barristan pauses, “8,000 Unsullied, 2,000 Second Sons, sailing into Blackwater Bay and storming the gates without warning.” The aged Knight’s response is nearly off-handed, as if the information is common knowledge and the conquest could be conducted as easily as he declares.

Lost in thought, listening to Barristan’s strategy, Jorah almost misses his Queen’s eyes staring at him in question regarding his view. Her head tilts to the side, and then the barest hint of a smile graces her lips, her eyebrow rising in a way that catches him unawares. A woman has not gazed at him like this in so long that he nearly misses the flicker of _something_ passing within her violet depths. Thinking it is a trick of the light or an illusion fashioned by his sleep-weary mind, he casts it aside. Then it appears again and he knows its name without any added thought. **_Desire_.** _Here? Now? How is it possible?_ His mind races with questions and none of them have satisfactory answers. Jorah dares not believe it is true and he attempts to regain his focus and answer Daenerys’ silent query. He shrugs, “It’s hard to say, could be enough.” He sits taller in his chair, his voice taking on a stronger tone, “But we’re not fighting to make you Queen of King’s Landing. 10,000 men can’t conquer Westeros.”

“The Old Houses will flock to our Queen when she crosses the Narrow Sea,” Barristan asserts.

“The houses will flock to whichever side they think will win as they always have.” Jorah counters with a somewhat dismissive wave of his hand, his patience growing thin at the indecision of his Queen’s council. Unable to stomach it any longer, he stands, “There’s other news from Yunkai. Without the Unsullied to enforce your rule, the wise masters have retaken control of the city. They’ve re-enslaved the freedmen who stayed behind and sworn to take revenge against you. And in Astapor, the council you installed to rule over the city has been overthrown by a butcher named Cleon who’s declared himself his Imperial Majesty.”

“Please leave me,” Daenerys orders. She waits until she hears the scrape of wood on stone, then the shuffling of feet before she adds, “Not you Jorah.”

He stops at her order, allowing the others to file from the room. Jorah keeps his countenance impassive at Barristan’s questioning glance on his way out, _meddlesome Knight_ , he muses, it is none of his business what the Queen wishes to discuss with him in confidence. Her back toward him, it gives Jorah a moment to look at her unobserved. Most of his speech had been delivered to her this way, but he does not wonder what effect his words have had. He already knows, the years at her side affording him a breadth of private knowledge no one else can ever dream of collecting.

Two steps and he stops, hands crossed behind his back. She turns to him then, “It appears my liberation of Slaver’s Bay isn’t going quite as planned.”

He feels for her. So far removed from the timid young Khaleesi she once was, he knows that even the strongest rulers still have doubts that linger in the deepest parts of their psyche.

“You could sail for Westeros and leave it all behind.” He attempts to reassure her, even though he knows deep down that it might not be the right course of action. “The boy who sits on the Iron Throne,” he says it with a sneer, “a boy many believe to be a bastard with no right to it. They’ve never been more vulnerable.”

Daenerys sees right through his half-hearted advice, “You counseled me against rashness once in Qarth. I didn’t listen, that all worked out well.”

Jorah can’t help the chuckle that rises at the memory, his smile breaking the seriousness of the moment. He glances away, but when his eyes dart back to hers there is a shift in her gaze, her head tilted once more, but this time in amusement.

“I have not seen you smile in so very long, Jorah,” she can’t help the one that dimples her own cheek, “Let alone laugh, even if it was only a short one.”   

“Someone must be the serious, brooding one,” he jests, “It has always suited the men of our House. Come to think of it,” he considers, “the women as well.”

Now she is the one laughing and Jorah’s heart lightens, it is his turn now to think on how long it has been since he has heard _her_ cheerfulness. Around the fire in a tent back in the Khalassar when they had known one another only a short time, rough-hewn cups of ill-tasting fermented mare’s milk in their hands, sharing stories in the warm, smoky space.

His mind back in the present, the air is heated here too, the mild breeze through the open balcony doors offering little respite from the sweltering temperatures.

“The first time I heard you laugh was back in the Khalassar,” her eyes wistful at the recollection, “You told me a tale of something from your years past, although now I cannot remember it.”

Jorah struggles to recall the story she speaks of, but he can’t either. _Probably some silly thing_ , he decides, greatly embellished to bring her some degree of happiness.

“I am sure you do not miss those Northern wools you wore then,” she smirks. Daenerys steps to him, her fingers toying with the ring on her finger, “I sometimes find myself remembering them fondly though, even if they weren’t suitable for the surroundings.”

He sees it again, the flicker from before, and he knows with a certainty deep in his bones that it was no trick of the light. He finds himself at a loss for how to respond and he swallows thickly, using the pause to conjure up a suitable response, but failing.

Her eyes dance with constrained laughter at his flustered state, “But you remedied that in short order.”

He had not realized just how close she was, his eyes picking up the tiny flecks of darkened skin gracing the bridge of her nose, the long sweep of her thick lashes, ones that she is gazing at him through now.

“This tunic,” her finger tracing the hemmed edge at his chest, “I remember when you first started wearing it. But I never understood _why_ , other than your need to stay cool.”

He hesitates, collecting his thoughts, trying to find an answer that does not reveal his true reasoning, “It is as you say. The weather called for it.”

“You are a horrible liar, Jorah,” she says with a laugh and a shake of her head, “Why will you not tell me the truth?”

“My reason would be…inappropriate.”

Now Daenerys is intrigued and he knows he has crossed some invisible line between them, “Sit, Jorah.” She gestures to the seat behind him, and once he is settled, she steps between his parted legs, “Now, must I order you as your Queen to tell me?”

“No,” Jorah wavers between the full truth and a half one. Her eyes decide for him, what he saw as a mere flicker before is now bright and intense, “I wore it as a show of allegiance. Turning my back on what I once was, to become the man you needed me to be.” He draws a deep breath, “Had I thought it fitting, I would have worn no tunic at all, completely immersing myself in the culture of your people.”

Her lips part on her own shallowly drawn breath, the tip of her finger hooking onto the knotted tie at the center of his chest, “By the Gods, I wish you had.”

Her admission stuns him, had she desired him all this time? Had he been _that_ blind to her feelings toward him or had he simply chosen to ignore them in his service to her? Whatever the rationalization, he sees that it is no longer necessary. Daenerys has opened the door and he would be a right fool not to step over the threshold. But, ever the cautious man, Jorah needs a verbal confirmation of the yearning swirling in her eyes, so he tests the waters further, “As they say, it is never too late to begin.”

“How can it be, even in moments like this, your counsel is still as wise as it always is?” Her words offer little information by way of her intentions, but then she sets to work untying the fastening, her fingers parting the golden fabric, her eyes lingering at the skin she reveals. And it is in that instant, her plans are at last entirely clear. Jorah stiffens at the first tentative graze of her soft fingertips, his breath leaving his lips in a traitorous gasp, his gaze darting between where her hand explores him and her resplendent face. There, he sees a multitude of emotions: resolve, approval, yearning, and though he knows instinctively that his eyes do not deceive him, he is still in disbelief at the soft sentiment shading into her violet irises, _love_.

Her touch follows the strength of his collarbone, dipping under the fabric to trace where it joins with his shoulder, teasing over the muscled curve, before retracing her path to the hollow of his throat. With a subtle tilt of her head, her bottom lip takes up residence between her teeth, her exploration continuing to the sinew bordering his throat and he cannot help the sudden roll of it in his futile attempt to slake his inexplicably parched mouth. Her fingers stop at his bearded jaw, the tips of them moving faintly back and forth in the scruff there, a quirk of her lips appearing and disappearing in a flash. Had Jorah not been watching her so intently, he would have missed her apparent joy at discovering the scratchiness of his ginger whiskers and his mind sets to wondering what thoughts were born of her finding.

He is not long in his pondering before her thumb brushes delicately over his parted lips, so soft a touch it nearly tickles. Jorah dares not move lest he snap the wondrous spell between them, the air sultry, laden heavy with ecstatic anticipation.

She stares into his eyes now, standing with him at the precipice of something new, and then they are plummeting over the edge, her lips warm and soft against his own. And it is indescribable, only because she ends the kiss before he can fully respond; fully _process_ everything swirling swiftly in his chest.

Yet time slows once more in the breath of his name, _Jorah_ , against the corner of his mouth, a question in the softness of her tone. Her warmth begins to slip away, like a setting sun, as she takes a step back, her brows drawn tight together. But she has made no folly in her all too brief kiss and he reaches for her face, cradling it in his large, heated palms, as much to stop her as to reassure her that he wants for more just as she does. Her tension softens into his touch, her eyes closing fleetingly to relish in it before they open again and she graces him with a radiant smile. He too bears the hint of one before he stands and inclines his head to press his lips to hers. A sound issues from her throat that he can only describe as pleased relief, but he makes no move to deepen their lip’s embrace. His mind will not allow his body any further action, for it is consumed by this long-awaited and long thought-of moment. It is everything he dreamt it would be. And infinitely more.

It is the eager press of her body and her grasp curling into the parted fabric at his chest that brings him back to himself. One hand moves to cradle the back of her head, fingers slipping into her silken tresses, and with a gentle tilt, he slants her mouth just so against his. The response is instantaneous, Daenerys surges against him, one hand leaving his tunic to find its way into his own short hair.

This deeper kiss is precisely what she needed; however, she had considered her Knight was far too chivalrous to instigate this action. Yet she does not mind in the slightest, his kiss is exhilarating, dizzying in its intensity, sweet in its surprising gentleness.  And so very worth the near interminable wait. Daenerys had not experienced many kisses in her life, but nestled in the spreading warmth in her chest is a knowledge that no other man could or ever will elicit such sensations from something so simple as a kiss. She may be immune to earthly flame, but Jorah has her burning in a fire that only lovers can ignite. The scratchiness of his whiskers tickles pleasantly under her nose and at her chin, but his lips are soft and pliant against hers. Daenerys’ tongue slips between her lips in a silent demand for entrance, and it is granted, the first touch tentative. But not so for long, the second lingers longer, as does the next, until they cannot fight the need for breath any longer. Eyes meet, a fevered mirror, violet to blue, fire to ice, and then Jorah feels himself being pulled forward, her faintly mischievous smile hinting at things to come. He decides to hasten things, his hands finding the curve of her waist then lifting her effortlessly in his arms. She remembers the strength she feels now in his embrace, back to a time when their friendship was still blossoming. Aiding her in the dismount of her silver mare after long hours spent in the uncomfortable saddle beneath a blistering, unforgiving sun, her tender skin rubbed raw by the rough leather reins. Now there is only bliss as he sets her down gently on the tables’ edge, her legs parting so she can draw him closer.

Their shared breath mingles, questions flying between their eyes. Grasping his hand, she draws it slowly to the collar at her neck, guiding it to the hooked fastener beneath her flowing hair. He questions her silently once more, his fingers resting on the warm metal, allowing her to make the final decision. She presses them closed around it and he wastes no more time. Thumbing it open, his other hand joins to ease it from her, the bodice of her diaphanous gown following. His eyes follow not long after, drinking in her beauty. Skin pale like cream where it had not been kissed by the sun, her breasts full and topped with coral nipples, drawn taut with desire. The iron falls from his hands, utterly disarmed by the goddess before him. Their next kiss is hungry and wanting, long-buried passions surfacing in the greedy pull of her hands on his tunic and in the slightly rough draw of her bottom lip between his teeth. She moans hot into his mouth, her fingers struggling with the belt at his hips, and with a growl of frustration, she leaves it be, instead focuses on pulling the golden tunic she loves so dearly off his body. Jorah chuckles huskily at her eagerness, and reaches behind him to aid her, drawing it over his head, their lips parting only long enough for the fabric to pass between them before he tosses it to the stone floor.  

She pulls back to look at him, to truly study him. The lean musculature of his torso from his broad, strong shoulders to his narrower waist, her fingers carding through the ginger hair covering his chest and stomach, finding and tracing the scars marring his tanned skin. Jorah waits, and though it tests his patience, he will not rush her. His hands cannot stay idle for long, however, his fingertips following the lines of her shoulders, the valleys fashioned by her collarbones, and the soft outer curves of her breasts. It is this caress that halts her exploration, her hands trembling, her exhalation just as shaky. She arches to him for more, her arms winding around his neck to bring him to her. A pleasured sigh leaves Jorah’s lips at the feel of her fiery skin intimately pressed against his own, her dress the only thing stopping her from feeling the fabric of his breeches scuffing her inner thighs. Jorah senses her frustration, one that he shares, and leans her back until she is laying on the table, his callused fingers slipping over the silk of her skin to draw the garment from her body. She lies before him with no shame, his gaze setting her alight nearly as fast as his touch.

Daenerys is ashamed to admit it even to herself that it took her so long to realize that she desires the quiet strength of Jorah. That what she felt in her heart for her faithful Knight was not the silly infatuation of a young girl, but the true love and desire only a woman experiences. Now he stands before her in all his glory and she cannot help the spike of desire that rushes through her at the sight of him. There is a hesitance in his eyes once more, but she banishes it with a smile and a soft nod. Jorah leans over her, one hand bracing his weight, and with the other reaching under her body to splay between her shoulder blades, lifting her from the table, drawing her breast to his mouth. His lips enclose the turgid nipple in the tenderest of kisses, the pale supple flesh around it flushing pink with arousal at Jorah’s attentions. Fingers grasp the curls at the back of his head, silently urging him for more. But Daenerys is not quiet in her appreciation of Jorah’s ministrations, her breathy groans and gentle whimpering pleas are the most beautiful sounds he has ever heard and he endeavors to illicit more of them from her full lips. His tongue laves at her, a shudder wracking her form into an arch to keep his mouth in contact with her. Once he has thoroughly tended to the pleasuring of one breast, he moves to its twin, gifting it the same affection. By the time he presses a lingering open-mouth kiss to the hollow between them, she is practically pulling his face back to hers, greedy for the feel of his lips and the taste of him on her tongue. There is reluctance when he breaks the kiss, but she is nearly as breathless as he is and the brief respite allows them to catch their breath and for him to finally brush kisses along her jaw and throat, his tongue darting out to taste the faint salt on her skin. He savors the scent of her along his mouth’s path down her body, his hands following the soft contours of her hips. Nervousness twines with the arousal in her belly; realization dawning on her at what he intends to do. He senses the shift in her, his soft reassuring gaze displaying all of the feelings within him: adoration, desire and trust. Her Jorah may say that she is in possession of a gentle heart, but in this moment, he possesses it as well. He would never hurt her, always seeing to her happiness and protection above all else. _Trust me, Khaleesi_ , the words from not so long ago sound in her mind.

A brush of her fingers on his cheek let him know that she does. _Completely_. Her small smile does too and he gifts her with one in return, his eyes locked on her own as he drops to his knees between her parted thighs and leans in toward her center, slow, allowing her to stop him if she so wishes. But she doesn’t, she never could.

A gentle press of his lips to her intimate flesh releases her held breath in a rush, a ripple of warmth rolling through her entire being. He retreats just enough for her to see his lips, glistening with her desire, and her belly clenches with need at the sight. No man has ever done what Jorah intends and it sends fissures of fiery lightning straight to the core of her. A laugh almost bubbles up in her at the thought that she will _finally_ experience what blushing young maidens whisper about between fits of giggles. Yet the humor dies in her throat when her gaze meets his face once more, there is no amusement in the way her bear looks at her. She wants to soar on the pleasure promised in the quirk of his beautiful lips, burn in the fire raging in his azure eyes, and know what it means to be his and his alone. In that instant, her heart beats solely for him and she realizes all at once that it will never beat for another as long as she lives.

Then Jorah is there again, far too tender with his kisses to her slick flesh, her wide eyes watching him from her position propped up on her elbows. He listens to her body, how it calls to him in every gasp and whimper, how it begs him for more with every tiny tremble. Awareness slams into him: _she has never had a man pleasure her this way before_. In that moment, Jorah vows she will never go without again. He discovers her secrets, his senses savoring everything that is his Queen, his Khaleesi, his love. His pace is slow, knowing from experience and the cues of her body that this is what Daenerys deserves: to be worshipped. Treasured.

She watches him with a faltering intensity, her eyes struggling to stay open to the vision of her Jorah on his knees before her, giving an entirely new meaning to the definition of service. Her arms are unable to support her any longer and she falls back on the smooth wood, her legs curling instinctively over his shoulders. The lithe muscles of her thighs tighten and he feels himself being pulled closer, the pressure of her heels at his back a welcome distraction from the tremendous ache in his groin. He desires her more than any woman he has ever known and Jorah is anything but impatient, she will have her gratification first.

“There,” a breath of whisper he barely hears breaks the silence when his tongue swirls deliciously slow up and over her swollen pearl the first time, “Gods, Jorah-”

His straining manhood throbs in his breeches and he is nearly undone by the breathless intonation of his name. His dreams of their shared passion do not do her sweet voice justice, his determination strong in the thought that he must hear his name again, only this time at the culmination of her ecstasy. He continues his slow teasing, his hands taking hold of her hips as they begin to rock in motion against his mouth, guiding her to the peak of her pleasure.

Daenerys had felt pleasure before, under the guidance of Doreah, but her own narrow, delicate fingers are nothing like the hot, wet pressure of Jorah’s undulating tongue or the way he draws her sensitive flesh between his lips to suckle rhythmically just as he had done at her breast. It is as if he understands her body without ever touching her, but she knows that cannot be true. Whatever the explanation, she finds she cannot care nor continue to think on it as her body begins to tingle, her thighs tightening against his head. Her hips jerk, her hands coming to rest on the back of his head, holding him to her, the rising sensations stealing all thought and breath.

In his fevered dreams, Daenerys had not been quiet at the height of her bliss. He finds that assumption is a fallacy for she is nearly silent when her pleasure crests, only wide eyes, parted lips, and fingers clenched tight in his hair. Then, as if finding her voice all at once, the sound of her euphoria spills forth in a throaty moan, contained within is the barest hint of his name. It is only when he slows the motion of his tongue, easing her down from her peak gently, that he hears it again. Only now it is uttered with awe, an emotion he sees shining in her eyes. Her chest heaves with tremendous need for air, her brow and the valley between her breasts glistening with exertion.

His knees ache, the stone floor biting into his skin through his breeches, but it is long forgotten at the feel of her hands cupping his face, bidding him to rise. Jorah knows that some women find it unpleasant to taste themselves and he hesitates when she draws him in for a kiss. Her eyes drop to where the evidence of her bliss shimmers on his lips and beard, lingering there for a moment before she smiles and overcomes his resistance with surprising strength, moaning softly as their tongues slip over one another.

“Take me to my chambers, Jorah,” she breathes into his mouth before meeting his eyes, “I need you.”

Jorah cannot deny her, and lifting her into his arms once more, he carries her the short distance then lays her down on the soft feather bed. She turns on her side and waits, watching with an arched eyebrow as he makes quick work of the rest of his clothing. Her lips part when his breeches drop to the floor, her eyes unable to tear away from his straining manhood. He stands before her, soul and body laid bare, and she sees Jorah as he truly is. No title, simply a man, and she would have him no other way. Nervous excitement dances through her veins, and then he smiles, a true unguarded expression that matches her own and she finds herself reaching for him, drawing his tall strong form down into the cradle of her hips. He settles, a look akin to wonder resides in his eyes that is mirrored in her own.

“I waited far too long,” she says in a rush, her hand cupping his bearded jaw, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.    

“Shh,” the backs of his fingers soothing her cheek, “We wait no longer, my Khaleesi.”

It is not a title now, rather an endearment she feels deep within her soul. Laying there, gazes locked, true contentment spreads in her chest, like the unfurling of Drogon’s massive ebony wings just before he takes to the sky. And then she is soaring too, everything that she is joining with everything that is Jorah. A wince halts his movement, “Forgive me.”

Concern is written all over his face and he moves to withdraw, but her hold on him tightens. She draws a centering breath, “No, my Jorah, it has merely been some time since…”

Understanding is so evident in his eyes that she intuitively knows it has been some time for him too, in all his years of service, she realizes he has never sought the services of a pleasure house. Her heart swells at the thought, and yet it is heavy too, laden with the notion that he waited, saved himself, with the hope that one day she might choose him to share her bed. But it was never out of surety or swaggering pride, as how she sees Daario, arrogant in the idea that she will easily fall for his empty charms and flowery speech. It is not so with her bear, always a quiet constant at her side, never once pressing her for more than simply being in her presence, offering his counsel and protection without need for promises of anything in return.

The slight discomfort is gone, and in its place, a hunger has started to grow and she no longer wishes to wait. A tilt of her hips sends him deeper within her, the muscles of his jaw jumping at the feel of being surrounded by Daenerys’ heat. Once he is fully seated, he pauses again, waiting for her. The strain tightens his brow and her fingers smooth away the wrinkles before joining her others in a leisurely journey over the bunching muscles of his back to rest on his backside, her nails softly teasing the muscled flesh as well as a gasp from his lips. She grips him there with a readiness that surprises him, her hips beginning to move beneath his in a sensuous roll. Her mouth drops open, her head pressing back hard into the pillow, “Please.”

Jorah knows he would never refuse her, most certainly not now, and he begins to move, slow, languid, savoring every sensation of their first time as one. His kiss is just as unhurried; his lips and tongue learning her mouth as he did the most intimate part of her. Gently nibbling her full bottom lip, he smiles into the kiss, her hands exploring his body with no rhyme or reason, from grasping his flexed biceps and shoulders, then skimming through the fur of his chest, only to find their way into his hair, directing his worship of her mouth with a tilt of his head.

 ** _This_** _is what being with a man is supposed to be like_ , she muses hazily. Subtle details of their intimacy are heightened in a way she never expected: the calluses on his fingertips sensually awakening her nerves from their dormant slumber, gooseflesh puckering her skin in the wake of his tender caress. The masculine scent of his sweat, the unexpected comfort she finds in it as it slickens their movements and combines with her own. The brush of his breath, quicker now, over her face and neck, warm and faintly tickling.

He moves without words, the rumbling sounds of his pleasure are all she needs and they mingle with her softer ones, the silence of her chambers chased away by the sounds of their passion. Each thrust of his hips brings that tingling heat he bestowed on her before closer to the surface, but it merely lingers there, roiling and twisting in its frustration. Daenerys knows what she needs, secrets taught to her long ago by Doreah, secrets tucked away but not forgotten.

A pressure on his chest slows Jorah’s movements and questioning eyes ask if there is _something_ he can do. An impish smile graces her face and he understands now the press of her hands, his arm tucking under her body and rolling them until she finds herself above him. She starts to move in the way she learned, her eyelids slipping shut at how _good_ Jorah feels within her, how this position is just what her body craved. The pleasure builds, her head tipping back, the ends of her hair soft over his thighs. She shudders, her eyes flying open at the liberty Jorah has just taken, his thumb circling with the right pressure to just above where they are joined, drawing breathless cries from her lips. A vague realization that Jorah had this knowledge of a woman’s pleasure, understanding the needs of her body as she does, spurs her on. Through heavy-lidded eyes, he gazes at her, the only goddess he will ever worship, no faith worthy enough to hold the veneration in his heart. She is the Unburnt One, but in his passion, she is aflame, smoldering at his perfect touch, burning in the fullness of his manhood within her. She is uninhibited in the pursuit of her bliss now, her hips rising and falling in a motion reminiscent of riding a horse at a gallop. She feels just as free, her muscles tight with yearning. It is just _there_ , and in her haze, she can hear Jorah’s amorous encouragement, willing her to _take your pleasure_. And she does, her body seizing still, save for the glorious throb between her legs, a seemingly never-ending wave that pulls his release to the surface, his guttural moan and hard grip of her hip extending the sensations. He manages to maintain the circling of his thumb through it all, but now it is too much, her hand moving his aside to rest on her thigh.

She slumps to his slick chest, each of them desperate for air. His heart is thundering beneath her ear, much like her own, fast in her breast. His arms enfold her lazily, as if his limbs have only enough strength to cooperate with his desires one last time. She lets out an airy laugh suddenly, one she cannot contain as she rests her chin on his chest. Confusion colors her beloved’s flushed features, “Khaleesi?”

                She sighs contentedly, “In my dreams, you are but a pale shadow of your true self.”

“You dreamt of me?” She can hear the mild surprise in his voice, “When?”

“That night in Qarth.” Her shy, but no less radiant, smile draws one from him, “and another only two nights prior.”

“I am glad to know I am not alone in my imaginings.”

“When did you dream of me,” she questions with a delicately arched eyebrow.

“More times than I can remember.”

The words whisper into the air as his fingers do at her temple, brushing stray silver strands back into place. She blinks at him, but doesn’t respond, her head coming to rest on his chest once more.

Jorah is unsure of how long he spends softly caressing her hair, but her breathing soon grows slow and even. He awoke that morning sure that she would soon take Daario to her bed, their interactions hinting at her changing opinion of him. The hurt of it had gnawed at his heart and chased away his sleep until he finally slipped into a fitful doze from sheer exhaustion sometime near dawn. The Queen of his heart choose him and the disbelief of it will not go away. Now, with her body draped over him, he thinks it might still be a dream somehow. And his dreams of her always end the same way, his invocation of love happily accepted.

“I love you, Daenerys.” The words leave his lips before he can stop them, his eyes snapping shut in regret at his mind’s impulsivity.

Jorah feels her move and his body tenses beneath her as he curses inwardly. Wide violet eyes gaze back at him before her features shift into a soft, contented smile. “I know, Jorah. I love you as well.”

He had always been one to wear his heart on his sleeve when it came to a woman that he loved and as he thinks back through all of their time together, an intelligent woman would have been able to infer his deep affection from his actions and occasional slip of the tongue. Apparently, Daenerys is exceedingly perceptive. Jorah can barely believe what his ears have just heard, “You-”

“Of course I do,” she responds with a gentle laugh.

“I-”

She shifts until she is level with his face, her hand resting on his cheek, “My sweet bear, I will admit it took me some time to acknowledge to myself that what I felt in my heart for you was not something to be pushed aside. That to love you was not a betrayal of our friendship or of your counsel. You remain my most trusted advisor and dearest friend, but you have now become my deepest, and truest love as well.”

The hope that he had secretly carried deep in his heart that she would return his affection has not been misplaced after all. His palm finds its home along her jaw, his lips finding hers, the only response he can offer. The organ that beats in his chest feels much too large in the aftermath of their revelations, his being barely able to contain the emotions that she engenders in him.

“ _My sweet bear_ ,” he says suddenly, nearly to himself.

She stifles a giggle with the back of her hand, “You are so very like the sigil of your house, fierce and strong. But, and it will remain our secret, alone with me you are another bear entirely.”

A chuckle rumbles through his chest, “When we share our den, my love, I will be whichever bear you wish me to be.”


End file.
